


L'Amour De La Femme

by sidebyside_archivist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Gender Identity, Gender Roles, Gender Stereotyping, M/M, POV First Person, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-01
Updated: 2004-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:52:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidebyside_archivist/pseuds/sidebyside_archivist
Summary: Gender-bending, kind of dark.





	L'Amour De La Femme

**Author's Note:**

> Note from LadyKardasi and Sahviere, the archivists: this story was originally archived at [Side by Side](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Side_by_Side_\(Star_Trek:_TOS_zine\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. We tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Side by Side’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sidebyside/profile).
> 
> Author's Note:  
> This turned out a lot weirder than I intended, but it was all I could come up with for a frottage challenge. (Still not sure what 'frottage' is; I hope this counts, as it is definitely includes sex with kinky clothes). This story was an experiment for me in many ways: I've never written in the second-person before, and this view of the boys is pretty different than I typically imagine. I tried to make it plausible and interesting.

You are one of the only crewmembers who likes to come down here while we're in warp; the anarchic other-worldliness of warp space makes most humans sick. Perhaps out of sheer cussedness, perhaps because I am addicted to the stars in all their forms, I like warp space as well. It's a different sort of beauty than impulse, but no less beautiful for all that. Besides, the chaotic twists of warp space are a good reflection of my emotions right now.

Even they can't hold my attention for very long today. Every time I blink I see another disturbing scene in my mind's eye. _Blink_. Your face, contorted with rage, as you try to kill me on the hot sands. _Blink_. The haughty blankness of T'Pring, the stony logic of T'Pau. Is that what you aspire to? Is that who you are? _Blink_. The relief in your eyes when you see that I survived. How lucky am I, that I can inspire such emotion in you? How selfish am I, that I am so relieved you didn't end up with T'Pring?

 _Blink_. Bones' words when I ask him if he can understand what happened. Why can't I get them out of my mind, given everything else?

It's late; I should go back to my quarters and sleep. But I know that I will just toss and turn, so I might as well try to think this through. I'm not reflective by nature, not like you are; but Professor Matsimbe at the academy used to teach us that the captain of a ship can't afford to not know himself. Since then I've trained myself to ask myself the hard questions. Like this one: if the conversation with Bones bothers me so much, that's precisely what I should be thinking about.

He and I spoke this morning after I gave the order to leave Altair. I knew he had spent the last few days doing as much research as he could about Vulcans and mating – he hates to be caught unawares and unprepared like he did. You are so withdrawn and twitchy about the whole thing that I didn't want to push you to tell me, but I need to know. You never mated: will you survive? Are you okay? What do you need now, from your friends? Just as it's hard to captain this ship without knowing how it functions, it's hard to be your friend without knowing about you. I know you so well, my friend. But I still know so little.

Bones had smiled his familiar crooked smile when I walked into his office, and I was happy to see a light of pleasure in his eyes. That meant he had found something – no small task, I knew, since the privacy laws of Vulcan are legendary. Still, science and medicine so thrives on the free exchange of information that I would have been surprised if there was nothing out there.

"Vulcan biology is a great deal more complicated than we Terrans tend to think of it as being, Jim," Bones had said to me when I asked him if he could explain if you were okay now, how you survived in the first place.

"What do you mean?"

He had leaned forward. "You are aware that even on Earth, not every organism is neatly divided into male and female, right?" "Yeah. Spores are asexual, and plants have both male and female parts."

McCoy had shaken his head and waved a finger. "Yes, but things are even more complicated than that. There are fish that change sex depending on their stress levels and how many other females there are. Hermaphrodites, animals that can fertilize themselves, sex-changing creatures – the possibilities are almost endless. And that's just about gender; when you consider different ways of mating, it gets even more complicated."

"Thanks for the biology lesson, Bones, but what does this have to do with Spock? Are you saying he's like a fish or something?"

"Spock, a fish?" Bones had laughed, but his teasing of you didn't have its normal bite. "No – I was just trying to illustrate that even Earth organisms don't easily collapse into the binary male-female distinction that humans make. It stands to reason that it wouldn't in an alien species either. I've been an idiot for not considering that earlier."

"So what is it like for Vulcans?"

He had hesitated. "You know, a lot of this is just supposition and inference, not anything I read explicitly. I'm not sure about any of it."

"Speculate."

"Well, the biological distinction between male and female is based on the size of the gamete, the size of the cell used in reproduction. Females have large gametes; in humans this is the egg, and the small gamete is the sperm. As far as I can tell, Vulcan males are considered 'male' by Federation science because they have the smaller gametes, and for that reason only."

He had paused expectantly, as if waiting for me to have some big insight. Maybe you would have understood where he was going, but I didn't. "Okay," I had said. "Spock has small gametes. Good for him."

Bones had grinned. "Yes, good for him," he had said. "But that's the _only_ reason that Federation science, and Starfleet, considers him male."

"What? Does he not have a – I mean, I could have sworn –"

"Relax, Jim, he has a penis," Bones had said, taking pity on me. "And he also has the secondary sex characteristics that are typical in a human male. At least most of them. That's why, before this, I never had a clue."

My stomach had been starting to feel fluttering, uneasy, but I didn't know why; after all, none of this had made any sense yet. "A clue about what? If he has male anatomy and male reproductive abilities, what are you getting at, Bones? And what the hell does this have to do with the pon farr and what happened on Vulcan?"

He had sighed. "Sex and mating are about a whole hell of a lot more than physical anatomy, Jim," he had said. "You of all people should know that. Cultural expectations and prescriptions are hugely important; and the biology of the brain plays a huge role, too. As far as I can tell, Vulcan society makes the most sense if you imagine that women in it play the same gender roles that men do on Earth."

"I know it's a matriarchy."

"I am. For one thing, the psychological implications of _that_ are pretty huge." Bones had gotten pretty animated. He's a hell of a scientist, our Bones; nothing can stop his curiosity when he gets his hands into a thorny issue. He's a lot like you in that way, though neither of you will admit it. I can tell he's fascinated by the biology, but my own feelings are a lot more complicated. Why did his words create such an edgy mixture of apprehension and excitement? Why was I simultaneously intrigued and unnerved? 

Why can't I stop thinking about what he said next?

Bones had gone on, heedless of my discomfort. "It's not just that females are in politically and militarily in charge, and that inheritance and lineage are traced through the mother's line, though that is part of it," he had said. "But it also means that female Vulcans are psychologically a lot more like male humans than they are like females. Broadly speaking, they are the more violent and aggressive gender; they tend to have more testosterone, be more warlike, and have better spatial and math skills; and sexually, they –"

"Wait a second, Bones," I had broken in. "Those are hideous generalizations. Spock is a brilliant mathematician; he's also one of the best warriors on the ship."

He had shrugged. "Spock appears to be an outlier because they _are_ generalizations; there will always be individuals that don't fit perfectly. Spock is also half human. Before he joined Starfleet, he was one of only 12% of Vulcan males studying physics in the Vulcan Science Academy. Most men go into diplomacy, literature, and the fine arts. And he is a very skilled warrior, but _all_ Vulcans are. You've never seen a female Vulcan fight; they have more muscle mass and more endurance than males by far. T'Pring could probably have kicked your butt."

That thought makes me uneasy. "So? What's the point?"

"As I was going to say, sexually this means that females are very much the aggressor and males are much more passive. Men are expected to – and do, by and large – take the responsibility for being the beautiful, decorative, _feminine_ one. Pon farr is controlled by the female, and in the normal course of things once a bonding occurs the men become property of the women." Bones had shaken his head. "On Earth, one person as property of another is an archaic concept; on Vulcan it's alive and well. Seems kinda barbaric to me, Jim, but whatever floats your boat."

"But I don't get it; if Spock had won the challenge, T'Pring would have become _his_ property, not the other way around."

"Yeah. That rule is only for the challenge, though, I think. I bet it's there to make females really reluctant to invoke it."

"But T'Pring still did. And Spock never mated afterward. Will he be okay? He won't die?" That question was what had precipitated all my interest in the first place.

Bones had shrugged. "I don’t know for sure," he had said. "As I said, this is all just what I've deduced. But – I think he'll be fine. Because it's controlled by the female, when T'Pring saw that she had lost and Spock gave her up, she released him from the madness."

"You mean it was _all_ her doing in the first place? What a bitch."

"The degree of the madness was because of her, yes. I think." He had smiled sympathetically. Leonard McCoy would never say so, but I can tell has a lot of empathy for you. "That's probably why Spock didn't think it would happen; most of the time when Vulcans come together for Pon Farr, it is far less harsh for the male, and much more of a joyous thing, I think."

"But – why? Why would she do that to him?"

"You'll have to ask him that, Jim," he had said. "But I'm inclined to take her at face value; she didn't want to be the 'consort of a legend.' And I'd guess that she didn't want to be the consort of Spock in particular; Vulcan seems like an extremely rigid society, both in terms of gender roles and expectations about emotion. He violates many of their stereotypes. I wouldn't be surprised if T'Pring didn't want that, bigoted bitch that she is."

I had felt a curious wash of relief and disappointment at this news. "So all that stuff about being passive and non-masculine and stuff – that doesn't really describe Spock, then?"

He had frowned. "I wouldn't say that. Spock may be half-human, but all of his background and cultural conditioning is Vulcan. Plus he does have much of the same physiology. I'd bet that in many ways he's psychologically female, for lack of a better term; probably just a bit less extreme about it than many Vulcan males are."

I had shifted in my seat and tried to imagine you, briefly, as a woman, even psychologically. I don’t even know what that would mean – but where I don't think I could at all see someone like Bones as a female in any way, it's not so difficult to imagine you that way – feminine, but stronger than most females I know. A _you_ type of woman. Why does that picture fascinate me so much? I have always thought of you as my best friend, my _guy_ best friend; it isn't a 'buddy' friendship like I had with Gary or have with Bones, but it's a male friendship nevertheless. Now what? "I don't even know what that's supposed to mean, Bones," I had said then. "I've always thought of Spock as a man. If he's some kind of weird female –"

"Oh, for god's sake," Bones had said. "Don’t treat him any differently than you do now; Spock is Spock, and you know him better than anyone else." Is that true? Do I really know you so well, if I didn't know this? How much does "this" matter?

"Then why are you telling me about it?"

"I thought you'd want to understand a little of where he's coming from, how he may define himself. It's hard to fully understand someone if you don't have a clue about those details of someone's past or society, or how they think of themselves." Bones had shrugged again. "I'm fascinated, personally. There's no way in hell I'm going to ask that green-blooded computer about it, so this is probably all I'll ever know. But I might give him less of a hard time about some things. It's probably a lot more difficult for him to fit in here than I thought it was."

I had grinned. "You, being easy on him? I'll believe that when I see it."

"Well, don't tell _him_ I said that."

That's when I had gotten up to go. "Thanks, Bones," I had said. "I appreciate you doing the research and telling me what you found." When I said it, it was true; it's certainly a relief to know that you will be fine. So why this unease, this jumbled apprehension, this curious anticipation when I think of you now?

I trace the stars through the cool clearsteel of the bulkhead. _In many ways he's psychologically female._ I keep thinking about Bones' words. How much of what he said is true, my friend Spock? How much don't I know about you, blinded as I was about my own assumptions? How stupid was I not to have seen, not to have considered that as a possibility? What does that even mean for you, about you?

What does it mean for me, for us? I can't believe how uneasy and at sea this knowledge makes me feel. For that matter, I can't believe how uncertain I've been since we left Vulcan. I see you hurting and withdrawn, and I would give my right arm to make it better.

I've always known I love you in a different way than I love Bones or Sam. Their pain, though it hurts me, doesn't reach inside me like yours does. Their gender, or psychological gender or whateverthehell it is, doesn't make the same kind of difference to me. Why does hearing you are not 'typically' male – whatever that means – affect me so? Why do I now keep trying to force you into the mental patterns I use for women? Why do you fit so easily in some ways? Why is that so alluring?

Gods. I need to stop wondering about this, or talk to you about it, or something. This is going nowhere. I don't even know why I care so much about it; I don't even know what _it_ is. I wish I could make it better for you, though. I wish I could erase the hurt that T'Pring inflicted on you. I wish I could protect you from the rigid rules and strictures of Vulcan that must have made so much of your life hell.

There is a soft footstep beside me. As I turn I feel no surprise, as if I knew you were coming all along. Your eyes are shadowed in the dimness of the observation lounge, your shoulders slightly stooped with fatigue. When I see you something rights in me even as I feel my hands start to sweat a little. "Spock," I say.

You incline your head. "Jim." Then you hesitate.

"Is everything okay?"

You quirk an eyebrow. "The ship is well." You know that's not what I was asking.

I wipe my damp palms on my uniform pants. "Do you want to get out of here?"

***

The atrium is most unlike the desert of my home: humid, green, and small. You have relaxed imperceptibly since entering it, a fact which I attribute to its similarity to a garden on Terra. I have spent enough time in San Francisco and other parts of Terra that the soothing effects of the atrium are effective for me approximately 82% of the time.

This, however, is not one of those times. I wonder briefly if I ever shall regain the calmness that I used to attain recently in meditation. I have just come from another failed session in which I was able to achieve no deeper than the 3rd khra. I would be ashamed of my inadequacy, if I did not have so many deeper things to be ashamed of. If shame was not an emotion.

Why are you feeling disturbed, Jim? Your mental emanations, which I have never been more aware of, speak of anxiousness and apprehension – and a sadness that has been there since Vulcan. Are you upset at who I am, now that you have seen how my own people reject me? Are you angry that I killed you? Are you uneasy at being alone with me, uncertain what I would do to you, dismayed at my inability to warn you ahead of time of what I might have done?

I would apologize to you if the apology itself would not reveal what an inadequate Vulcan I am. I should not apologize; I should not even feel the need to apologize. I should not be here with you, feeling your emotions, feeling _my_ emotions. T'Pring was right to reject me; I am an inadequate if not laughable excuse for a Vulcan.

You bend to examine a small leaf, and I feel a wash of curious tenderness as I contemplate your bowed head. I barely resist the urge to brush the nape of your neck with my fingertips, to ascertain your mental state more fully. Your thoughts have always pulled to mine; now, feeling the odd distance between us, I want to reach out.

This, then, is proof that I am inadequate. I should not be wanting your friendship; you should not lure me with your thoughts and your camaraderie and your hazel eyes. Was this what T'Pring saw in me, to make her hate me so?

Why did I come here to you this night? Why did I join Starfleet, to live among aliens who for all their openness do not understand me? Why did I surround myself with the temptation of you, you who know me so well, you who know me not at all? You are the source of my pain; the source of my failing – the source of my joy and my respite. It is you.

You glance toward me, and something inside crumbles at the searching look. "How are you doing, Spock?" you ask softly. It is the first _real_ question you have asked since we left Vulcan. The sincerity in your tone is almost my undoing.

"Adequate," I allow. Please understand, Jim: my Vulcan armor is all I have left. Do not breach it. Do not ask any more questions.

You stand up, seeming not to hear my quiet pleas. I accidentally brush against your sleeve as you straighten. The touch startles me and I withdraw rapidly, hoping you did not notice. It is futile; I see your eyes track down to the place I touched you. "Adequate, huh?" you ask. Again the searching look. "Bones seems to think that the – uh – mating urge is no longer a danger for you."

I raise an eyebrow. I had not recognized that you and Leonard did not realize that. "Yes," I allow. "It has passed. I will not die."

You smile; it is a slight smile, a soft smile, but one I have not seen since we left Vulcan. I am gaining practice at cataloguing human expressions, your expressions. You do not show this smile very often. "Good." You look away from me then, beyond my shoulder, and I resist the urge to turn around and follow your gaze. I know you are just looking away from my eyes, unwilling to inquire further. Why did you invite me here, my friend? Why are you being so kind to me now that you know what I am?

You look back at me. "Can I ask a question?"

Please, don't. I do not know if I can answer. But I cannot deny you anything. "Ask."

You are twisting your hands, a human sign of nervousness. What are you nervous about? Are you trying to decide how to ask me to take my leave of you? I will do so, if you wish it.

But your question is not at all what I had imagined. "Spock, do, uh, human gender roles – fit you? I mean, do you feel – comfortable – in them?" I cannot help it; I raise an eyebrow again. "I am unsure what you are asking, Jim." I say. "I am uncomfortable with much of human culture. To what do you refer in particular?"

"Um – like, passivity, and feeling feminine, and stuff like that. Do you feel more like a girl, or like a guy?"

You seem most disturbed, though I cannot imagine why, nor where these questions are coming from. "The question makes little sense, as I do not know what a human 'girl' or a 'guy' feels like. Do you mean sexually, or in other essentials?"

"Both. Either." You will not meet my eyes, though this conversation is far less disturbing than many that I had feared. Gender and sexuality is intriguing and scientific – and, when not involving the pon farr, it is even logical in many ways. I would much rather discuss it than my feelings, feelings I as a Vulcan should not have much less acknowledge.

"I am still most uncertain what is sexually 'typical' for humans, and I am aware that there is much more heterogeneity in your species than in mine," I say, and you nod. "Nevertheless, I estimate that I prefer a more passive, 'feminine' role than 97% of human males."

You are fiddling with your sleeve, still unable to meet my eyes. "So you like the woman to take charge? Is that what that means?"

"I enjoy being submissive," I say. "I think I would enjoy being penetrated by her, though I have not yet had the opportunity to try. Vulcan and Romulan females have the ability to engage in penetration; it sounds quite desirable. I would be equally satisfied by being with a dominant male, though that is difficult to find on Vulcan."

I glance over; there are red splotches on your cheeks, a human sign of embarrassment. I recall that human culture has taboos against speaking openly of sexual matters. And yet you asked me; intriguing. "This makes you uncomfortable," I say. "Why do you wish to know?"

You shrug. "Nothing. I'm sorry." Finally you look at me and smile. The smile almost reaches your eyes. "Just – thinking about T'Pring and what sex would be like for Vulcans. I didn't mean to violate your privacy."

"Vulcan culture has no taboos against speaking of sexual matters, Jim. There is no need to apologize."

"Good." You put a hand on my shoulder, relieved, and I try not to react visibly to your touch. I can feel the soft hum of your thoughts even through my shirt, even though I am not touching your meld points. I detect wafts of relief, and affection, and the soft hum of something deeper, more speculative. Then you smile. "Do you want to work out?"

***

It is most illogical for me to have agreed to work out with you now, at 2200 hours, when we both had thorough exercise sessions earlier in the day. Yes something in me cannot say no to you, not when you look at me that way. By T'Rea's forge, I have lost myself.

We have changed into the uniforms of the k'al'adrel, and ancient Vulcan martial art that I have been attempting to teach you. It relies on a type of strength that I know is philosophically alien to you; the type of strength that comes from accepting one's enemy rather than meeting him head-on. For this reason, our sessions are slow and often unproductive; yet you still persevere. I admire that about you.

You settle into the k'al'aai stance – the first form – and we face each other. We circle each other warily, I looking for defects in your stance, you determinedly looking for an opening. You are improving; I intentionally show you one, and though it is small and subtle you immediately act on it, lashing out with one arm. You meet me mid-motion, and this time you counteract your natural inclination, pulling me toward you instead of lashing out against me. It works; I fall forward, and we both topple to the ground.

Your cheeks are red again, this time with exertion, and you laugh. "Gotcha, Spock!"

"Indeed. However, you did not step aside, which caused me to bring you down as well."

You get up. "Well, let me try again."

As we face off, you ask a question, apropos of nothing. "You said you're interested in both females and males," you say. "Are all Vulcans bisexual?"

I make an attack that you counter clumsily but effectively. "About 87 percent are, I believe," I say. "For most, the relevant variable is not the gender of one's partner, but the role one takes in the sexual encounter."

You nod. You do not seem as embarrassed by this discussion as by the last; perhaps that is because you are busy trying to simultaneously master the k'al'adrel. An intriguing hypothesis, if true. "By role you mean who is the penetrator," you say. You lunge for me, but I am easily able to parry it away.

"In part. There is much more to it than that."

You make another move, a move that I do not notice right away because I am concentrating on my words. I stumble backward and you fall on top of me. Your face is inches from mine, gold and red with exertion, dripping human sweat on my skin. I can smell your scent, a cool musk, and all of a sudden the logical and meditative frame of mind that I had briefly achieved is gone as if it had never existed.

You shift slightly against me but do not get up, and only then do I notice the look in your eyes: intent, hungry, speculative. You seem to have forgotten the k'al'adrel. "What do you mean?" you ask softly. "Do you dress up as a girl or something?"

Perhaps I have not fully recovered from the pon farr. Perhaps it is your nearness, the evocative alluringness of your mind-trace. Whatever the reason, something kindles deep within me at your words, at your tone, at the look in your eyes; and I too have forgotten the k'al'adrel. "Sometimes," I allow, and I am surprised to hear my voice sound so hoarse.

You reach up and trace a finger gently down my cheek, then look at the finger as if surprised to find that it belongs to you. My skin burns where it remembers your touch.

You meet my eyes, and I am stunned at the emotion I see in yours. "Show me."

***

I can't believe I'm doing this. Part of my mind is gibbering at me incoherently, wondering if I have taken leave of my senses; I feel distant from myself, as if it is another Jim Kirk that is following you to your quarters. But the uneasiness I've felt for days has finally vanished, to be replaced by a cool calmness, an unruffled certainty.

Why are you coming with me, my friend? Your dark gaze met mine with full knowledge of what I was asking, am asking. My finger is still seared with the feeling of your hot skin under mine, the liquid touch of your thoughts as they briefly touched mine. I felt your own confusion. Why add mine to yours?

But here we are, and I wait for you to emerge from your bedroom, where you are changing. I dare not even think about _that_ , about what purpose has brought us both here. Am I the same person as I was this morning? Are you? What are we doing?

And then you emerge, and my breath catches in my throat. I don't know what I had imagined, when I thought of you dressed up. I think that, consciously at least, I thought you would look ridiculous. Weird. At best, odd.

I never thought you would look this ... _hot_. You are wearing a long velvet gown, a deep shimmering black. At first glance it is easy to mistake for a standard meditation robe, but then I look more carefully, and there are subtle curves cut into the gown around the hips, around the waist. You shift your weight provocatively, and I realize suddenly that you have always struck me as slightly uncomfortable with your own body – until now. Now, you hold yourself like a – like a _woman_ , like a woman who knows she's damn sexy, and you look up and meet my gaze with your depthless black eyes and I feel like I'm drowning.

"Um," I say. What have you done with Spock, with my best friend, my best _guy_ friend, part of me wants to ask. But you _are_ Spock, you're _you_ , and you're you but you're kind of like a woman also, but you're still the one that I trust implicitly, beyond life, beyond even death. What if you were _really_ a woman, I ask myself, and I could touch your wetness and watch you writhe under my hands – what if I could feel the soft curves of your breasts and kiss you into oblivion and feel your mind in mine as we shared our most secret parts with each other? What if, what if? – but you _are_ here, and I realize all of a sudden that you're turning me on so badly not because you're dressed up, but because you're _you_. "Come here," I manage.

I've backed up against your desk, and when you reach me you bend to kneel in front of me. You never take your black eyes off of mine as you reach for my pants, and I inhale raggedly at the slight brush of your hand against my hardness. But I shake my head. "No," I say, and reach to pull you up, so we are standing full-length against each other. I realize you are taller than me; my cock jumps at the thought.

I slowly stroke my hands up your torso, over your chest where you would have breasts if you were a woman, and to my surprise your pectorals _do_ sort of feel like breasts to me, like the very small hills of a nubile young woman. I nestle at the nubs of your nipples through your gown, and you surprise me by moaning, just like a woman would. At least, I don't think men would react this way; I've never been with a man, but being with you doesn’t feel like I am.

I can't believe that you, my proud Vulcan friend, are letting me do this to you. You close your eyes as I slip my hands inside your gown. You have some chest hair, which makes me pause, but then I meet your hungry eyes with mine and it doesn't matter. And then we are kissing, and with each touch of our lips I can feel your hunger as my own. With one hand I pull you tight against me, but that position against the desk is too awkward and we stumble around it until I hit the wall. Oh, Spock, my friend, mine, you are so lovely, I feel like I could shatter.

After some endless minutes we stop kissing. I have never had kisses affect me so much. I reach toward your hips, anxious to pull you all the way against me, anxious to explore your cute little breasts some more, but you stop me with a soft shake of the head and a heated, smoldering gaze. "No," you say, and bend down to kneel in front of me again.

This time I let you, indeed I push you down the rest of the way, trembling with – what? anticipation? fear? excitement? – as you bend to open my trousers and take my cock in your hand. I am already almost at the edge, and I can't think of anything except my rising desire and the fact that it is you _, you_ , who is doing this to me. "Oh my god, Spock –" I manage to gasp out, and then you put your hot mouth on me, and I can't think any more.

You are good, so good, and it is taking all my self-control not to come right now. I glance down and can see my hand, my square, solid male hands, on your dark shiny hair. You are still wearing your gown, and it fits you; it fits you so well, the dark black velvet bringing out something in you that I had never imagined, but it feels so right. This feels so good, and I love you so much – and at that thought I can't hold back anymore, and I come, and come, and come.

When it has passed I shakily pull you up against me. You meet my eyes, and in your gaze I see a mirror of my own emotions: amazement, and fright, and shock, and the remnants of desire. "Wow," I say. "Let me –"

"No." You stop my wandering hand, clasp it in your own, and bring our joined hands up in between us.

"No? Are you sure?" I ask as a matter of form, but then trail off. For some reason I don't want to push it. I want to make love with you, but really I want to make love with you the woman. But you're not a woman, you're a guy.

"I am sure, Jim," you say gently. You look ridiculous and beautiful in that gown, and I realize suddenly how vulnerable you have made yourself, how vulnerable I am to you.

"I don't – " I try to say, but I don't know what I'm saying. You seem to understand anyway, my one, and you just cover my lips with a finger. Your hair is tousled, your lips swollen, and my heart breaks at the fear that I am hurting you, that we may have just hurt us with what we did. What did we do? What am I doing?

"Jim," you say again, this time with calm certainty. "I am fine."

"I – Spock, I –" I love you, I almost say, except that will certainly make things even more confusing, and you seem to hear my words anyway and withdraw. For the first time in this long surreal evening I feel a wall between you and me, and I shake my head, as if to erase my unsaid words. "Never mind," I say instead. "I should probably leave. It's late."

You step back from my embrace, and my arms suddenly feel empty. I realize that my pants are still undone and reach hastily to refasten them, not meeting your eyes as I do so. Suddenly this all feels deeply awkward.

"Go, then," you whisper softly, and I look up. You will also not seek my gaze, so instead I look at the smooth lines of your body, still alluring and feminine in your gown. I reach out and lift your chin, forcing you to look at me.

I plant a soft kiss on your mouth, and then leave. I can feel you watch me go.


End file.
